


so long between the words we spoke

by asael



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: F/F, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Blue Lions Route Spoilers, Getting Together, Mild Sexual Content, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-27
Updated: 2020-05-27
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:09:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24410344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asael/pseuds/asael
Summary: The war is over, and Ingrid is visiting Enbarr in the company of her king. She wants nothing more than to see Dorothea while she's there, but is she finally ready to put words to the feelings she's held close for so long?
Relationships: Dorothea Arnault/Ingrid Brandl Galatea
Comments: 18
Kudos: 80





	so long between the words we spoke

**Author's Note:**

> I have wanted to write these two for awhile, and this seemed like a good opportunity. This is the first time I've written either of these ladies at any kind of length, so I apologize for anything that doesn't ring true!

It had been some time since Ingrid had been in Enbarr. Shortly after the war, she’d come as part of Dimitri’s delegation to help create treaties, begin the rebuilding, accept vows of loyalty from the remaining Adrestian nobles. That had been - was it four years ago, now? It didn’t seem that long.

Time slipped by so quickly now that Ingrid was engaged in work she genuinely cared about.

And now she was approaching the gates of Enbarr again, flying above the king’s battalion with her own pegasus knights. Dimitri ruled from Fhirdiad, and usually required anyone with concerns to come to him - it was simply easier that way. But now that Fódlan had rebuilt from the long, terrible war and the events that had followed, he’d decided it was time to travel his kingdom, visit the cities and nobles in person. It would be easier to discover any problems, he said, and to fix them.

So of course Enbarr was first. The seat of Edelgard’s power, Ingrid knew that Dimitri had some concerns about rebels there, about hidden cohorts still devoted to Edelgard. He would travel the former Empire first, he’d announced, and then on to the Alliance, spending weeks in each place, bringing a vast retinue along with him.

Part of that retinue, of course, was Ingrid and her pegasus knights. They were all at Dimitri’s disposal, and she was still part of his inner circle. She had no intention of letting him go into this possible viper’s nest alone, no matter how certain Sylvain was that it would be fine.

It felt strange to return to the site of their greatest triumph - the last true battle of the war. The Imperial Palace lay empty still. It had been used as emergency housing during the rebuilding of Enbarr, but since then the arguments over what should be done with it had been thick and furious. Likely that was something Dimitri would be asked to resolve now that he was here - but during this visit, at least, it would house the king.

They marched through the streets to general adulation. Commoners and nobles alike lined the route, and most seemed genuinely delighted. Dimitri’s reign had been good for the land, after so long spent in chaos and war. Still, Ingrid and her knights kept close watch from above, ensuring that no archer or spellcaster could threaten their king from the crowd.

Ingrid glanced about herself to ensure that her knights were, indeed, doing their duty. The ones she’d brought on this trip were the best of the best, warriors who were nearly good enough to earn true knighthoods of their own and be given duties outside her battalion. This was a test for them as much as it was an assignment. She was pleased to see them neatly in formation, sharp-eyed, lances at the ready in case of trouble.

It was she, in truth, whose eyes wandered. They were passing the Mittelfrank Opera House, and Ingrid could not help looking. 

The war had damaged even that building, its elaborately styled front scarred by magic and arrows. The last time Ingrid had seen it, reconstruction had been proceeding steadily, and now she could see that they’d finished.

She’d never seen it before the war. Her father would not have wasted the time and money to take her all the way to Enbarr for the opera, and frankly, she’d never been all that interested in that kind of thing. But now she could appreciate the building, its tasteful but bright paint, its dramatic architecture.

It wasn’t really the building that drew her attention, of course. It was memories, a soft tug at her heart, the knowledge that inside that building right at the same moment Ingrid passed might be Dorothea Arnault.

She hadn’t seen Dorothea in years. Not since she’d gracefully accepted Dimitri’s thanks for her assistance during the war, firmly turned down all offers of a position in his court, and left to return to Enbarr. They’d written letters here and there, Dorothea’s witty and entertaining and filled with gossipy tidbits, but Ingrid had her duties and Dorothea had devoted herself to restoring the opera company. They’d had no reason to meet, no reason for anything except those few letters.

Ingrid had kept them all, at the bottom of a trunk back in her rooms in Fhirdiad, and she tried not to think about why.

But now she was here in Enbarr, in Dorothea’s city, passing the beautiful building that she knew her friend performed in nearly every night. She wondered - frivolously, wistfully - if she might be able to slip away from the palace one night, procure a ticket, and see Dorothea sing. She wondered if they could take a meal together, or perhaps tea. She’d written Dorothea to say she was coming, but something had made her nervous, and it had ended up being a throwaway line at the end of a longer, incredibly dull letter about her recent training expedition into the mountains.

Dorothea might have missed it. Ingrid hadn’t received a response before they’d left on their journey.

That seemed like an awfully silly thing to think now, though, considering the way the entire city had turned out to see King Dimitri arrive. It’s not like Dorothea could have failed to hear of their arrival, and surely she’d guess Ingrid would be there too. All she’d need to do was look out a window and see pegasus knights in the sky, and she’d know.

Ingrid felt deeply foolish for her nervousness. She ought to have written sooner, asked Dorothea for a meeting, proposed an evening spent in friendly fun or - or _something_.

They moved past the opera house, and Ingrid forced her mind back to her duties. A few moments of inattention might seem harmless, but she knew well that all it took was a few moments to change the course of a battle, a war, history itself.

She glanced down at Dimitri, the carefully set expression of regal pleasure, the wave of his hand. This time, at least, her inattention had not been punished.

***

As it turned out, Dorothea had indeed gotten her letter. She hadn’t failed to notice the king’s arrival, either. That was made very obvious when she appeared at Ingrid’s door that very evening.

They’d settled in quickly, the palace having been made ready for their arrival, and Ingrid had eaten dinner already. There would be court dinners soon that she would be expected to attend, but for now they were left to their own devices - Dimitri’s excuse being that he was weary after the journey, and though that may well have been true, Ingrid also knew it was to give himself time to prepare for the endless rounds of politics and demanding nobles and people trying to worm their way into his good graces.

So she was alone in her room when Dorothea arrived, and it was late.

The knock at her door startled her from her unpacking, which had gotten slower as the evening grew dark. _She_ was certainly weary after their long weeks of travel, the hubbub of their arrival. She opened the door with her hand raised to cover a yawn, expecting a servant with a message from Dimitri or one of her pegasus knights with a problem, and saw - Dorothea.

She smiled, sweet and easy, and said, “ _There’s_ my Ingrid.”

Dorothea was as beautiful as she had ever been. More now, perhaps. During the war, stress and loss had made her tense and sad, even when she made an effort to keep her manner light. That was gone now, or at least Ingrid hoped that it was gone and not that she’d lost her ability to read Dorothea’s expressions. She thought Dorothea looked happier, more relaxed. She wanted that to be true.

Ingrid found herself smiling without meaning to, a flush rising to her cheeks. She’d never quite gotten used to the way Dorothea spoke to her, her familiarity and gentle teasing. She hadn’t gotten used to it - but she had missed it.

“Come in,” she said, “I apologize for the mess.” She stepped back from the door and glanced around quickly, making sure there was nothing too personal laying out. Not that she had any secrets to hide, but - but the idea of Dorothea seeing her underthings made her feel hot and a little uncomfortable. Luckily she’d tucked those away already.

“Oh, don’t worry about that,” Dorothea said, entering the room. “I know you just got here - I didn’t expect it to be in perfect order already. And I won’t stay long, either, I know you must be tired.”

“No, you can stay,” Ingrid said. “I’m really not tired at all.”

Dorothea smiled at her. “Don’t lie to me, I saw that yawn. But I’m glad you’re happy to see me.”

Ingrid felt herself flush again, and began to remember the near-perpetual state of red cheeks that spending time with Dorothea had often left her in. But she didn’t have it in her to deny what she knew was true, and so she nodded. “I am.”

Dorothea’s smile went soft in a way that made Ingrid's heart beat harder. She looked away, trying to clear her head.

“I came to bring you this,” Dorothea said, and she stepped forward. In her hand was an elaborately calligraphed invitation on heavy, expensive paper. “Two days from now, I’ve reserved one of the box seats at the opera for you. Won’t you come see me sing?” She winked.

Ingrid took the invitation from her, looking at it for only a moment. The date, time, location, the name of the opera - and below, in beautiful handwriting, _A guest of Dorothea Arnault_. She wondered if Dorothea had written it herself.

“I’d like to,” Ingrid said, and it was true. She had seen Dorothea sing before - at choir practice, in small school productions - but she could only imagine how much more impressive it would be in that gorgeous opera house. But… “But I do have to work while I’m here. My pegasus knights will be guarding the king, and I’ve got to lead them.”

“Oh, don’t worry about that. I spoke to Dimitri already, and he’s sure he can spare you for an evening.” Dorothea waved that excuse off with barely a blink. “In fact, do you know what he said?” She lowered her voice into a fair imitation of Dimitri’s. “ _Oh, Dorothea, I’m so glad you’re here! Ingrid desperately needs a night off, she works too much! How lucky she is that you’ve come to fix that._ ”

Ingrid laughed, though she felt like she probably shouldn’t have. It was just so spot on, Dorothea capturing Dimitri’s speech patterns perfectly, except - “He would never say anything like that.”

Dorothea was laughing too, a musical sound, soft on Ingrid’s ears. “Okay, he might not have said it _quite_ like that. But he did say you’ve been working a lot. I figured you must be - all that’s ever in your letters is work, work, work.”

“I’m sorry,” Ingrid said, embarrassment rising in her. “I’m not very good at writing letters -”

“Oh, sweetheart,” Dorothea said, “I’m not complaining. I love your letters - a glimpse into the life of a dashing lady knight. I just think you need to have some _fun_ sometimes, too.”

Ingrid’s heart thumped traitorously at the endearment. It was Dorothea’s way, had always been, and she shouldn’t let it affect her, but Ingrid could not seem to convince her emotions of that. It was only because it had been so long since they’d seen each other, she was sure.

“I don’t have a… a dress or anything,” she said. Didn’t people normally dress extravagantly for the opera? Ingrid had always been terrible at that sort of thing. Of course, Dorothea knew that already.

“I thought you might not,” Dorothea said, her smile turning just a bit victorious. “ _So_ , I had something made for you. I just needed to see you in person to make sure the measurements were right - the tailor will have it here by tomorrow evening, so you have time to try it on. Now you have no excuse at all!”

Ingrid found herself speechless, and utterly without any other excuse. And why should she search for another, anyway? The truth was - 

The truth was she very badly wanted to hear Dorothea sing. She wanted to see her onstage, in her element, making the entire audience fall in love with her. She wanted that, and so much more.

“All right,” she said, just a bit brusquely, in an attempt to hide the flush on her cheeks. “I can’t let you go to all that work and then say no, I guess. I’ll be there.”

“Ah, wonderful!” Dorothea said, clasping her hands together. “I’ve been dreaming of the day I get to perform for my lovely Ingrid. You won’t regret it.” And then she smiled at Ingrid and swept out of the room, taking some of the light with her.

Ingrid sighed and sat on the bed, the invitation clutched in her hand. It had been so long since she’d seen Dorothea, and yet - and yet the woman still made her heart beat harder, her cheeks get hot. She’d gotten no less beautiful, no less charming.

With an effort, Ingrid pushed those thoughts away before her mind began to wander. She still had unpacking to take care of, and she needed to rest. The next day would be full of Adrestian nobles and royal business, and she’d be on her feet for most of it. She couldn’t allow her thoughts of Dorothea to distract her.

But now she had something to look forward to. There was a spark in her heart, a spark that threatened to grow into a fire if she let it.

Ingrid smoothed the paper out carefully, tucked it away in a drawer, and went back to her tasks.

***

Before she knew it, the night of the opera arrived. The dress had been delivered, as she’d been warned, and Ingrid dressed carefully. It felt strange, and that wasn’t a surprise. In the normal course of things, Ingrid wore armor whenever she was on duty, which was most of the time. When she wasn’t, she preferred simple clothing, sturdy fabrics and cuts that were easy to move in. She’d never been one for makeup or fancy clothing.

But she had to admit that the dress Dorothea had chosen was beautiful.

It was a rich green. The skirt flowed around her legs, not clinging or impeding her movement. The neckline was high enough to suit Ingrid’s rather severe tastes, but the fabric of the bodice clung to her torso - not quite tightly enough to constrict, but enough to show her figure. Her arms were bare, and a matching cape had been provided to cover her shoulders from the chill of the night air. There were even shoes - low slippers with no heel, finely made but nothing anyone could really _walk_ in.

It was unfamiliar and made her feel a bit exposed, but Ingrid could not help but be touched. It was clear that Dorothea had attempted to pick out something that Ingrid wouldn’t hate, something she might even feel comfortable in.

And when she caught sight of herself in the mirror, Ingrid realized that the green of the dress exactly matched the green of her eyes. Ingrid did not know how to feel about that, because she was certain it wasn’t an accident, and it meant - well, it meant something Ingrid wasn’t quite willing to face yet.

Without her armor, she didn’t think she looked like herself, but she had to admit that she didn’t look _bad_. Ingrid was still unskilled with makeup, so she hoped that Dorothea wasn’t expecting that - but she managed to tie her hair up with ribbons that, if they did not match the dress, at least seemed to complement the color.

Then she took a deep breath, readied herself, and went to the opera.

There were musical companies in Fhirdiad, and theater troupes as well. Some, she thought, even sang. But none were as well established as the Mittelfrank Opera Company, none had that reputation of hundreds of years of skill and quality, refinement, grace. Ingrid wasn’t in the habit of attending their performances anyway, though she’d been to one or two at Mercedes’ insistence.

This was something else entirely.

The opera house glittered with light, lanterns arranged carefully to illuminate the gilding, the rich paint, the elaborately costumed people entering the building. Ingrid had taken a carriage from the palace, resisting her urge to simply walk, and she paused for a moment before getting out. Compared to the majority of the attendees, her outfit was simple, but - Ingrid could see now that the _way_ it was made, the fit and the quality of the fabric and the way it clung to her, showed off how fine it truly was.

It must have been awfully expensive, she thought with a pang. But then, Dorothea was the diva of the Mittelfrank Opera Company, well-known and respected throughout the city - perhaps she had not needed to spend too much. Still, Ingrid found herself shaken once again by Dorothea’s kindness, her _interest_ , her generous nature.

Clustered around the front of the opera house were vendors selling nuts, drinks, and flowers - the last to be thrown upon the stage at the end of the performance, traditionally. Ingrid nodded to herself, making a decision, and climbed out of the carriage. She strode straight to one of the flower vendors and spent nearly all her pocket money, as well as a significant amount of time, creating a bouquet.

She could not properly repay Dorothea for what she’d already done. But this would ease her mind a little, and - if Ingrid were being entirely honest with herself - she very much wanted to see the expression on Dorothea’s face when she received them. 

Feeling somewhat more pleased with herself, Ingrid entered the opera house. The presentation of her invitation to one of the boys at the door got her an escort up the beautifully carpeted stairs and into a private box, one that had an excellent view of the stage. 

It was comfortable and wonderfully appointed, with draped fabric along the walls and a small scattering of chairs. There was room enough for a small party, but Ingrid was the only one there - which was good, because she had no idea how to talk to the sorts of people who might be in a private box at the opera.

One of the chairs was set in a perfect position to see the stage, and next to it sat a small table. Arranged on that table were a number of delicacies - sugared nuts, chocolates, wine, and a wide array of spiced and dried meats. Suddenly, Ingrid felt a good deal more at home. Dorothea knew her well - too well, maybe, and perhaps she should be embarrassed. But she couldn’t find it in her to feel anything but happy, not really.

She took her seat and began sampling the snacks. Some were entirely new to her, and she told herself to remember to ask about the particularly spicy meat - Felix might like that. He hadn’t come on this trip, but she could always send some back to him in Fhirdiad. She was in the middle of cleansing her palate with a sip of wine when the music rose.

As seductive as the meats were, this is what she had come for. She set the wine down, sat upright in her chair, and watched.

In truth, Ingrid had nothing of note to judge this opera on. She’d seen a few plays, even a musical or two, but a true opera? Never. But she couldn’t help but think that no other opera in the world could possibly compare to one with Dorothea as its star.

She did not think she was being over-effusive in her praise, either. The opera was good - the costumes were splendid, the singing seemed wonderful, and even the show swordplay wasn’t half-bad - but when Dorothea stepped onstage, she elevated the entire theater.

Her voice drew you in, made you feel things that you could not control. It was beautiful and clear and so expressive, reaching highs that made Ingrid’s head swim. When Dorothea’s ‘lover’ was killed, the sorrow in her singing drew tears from more than one person there - Ingrid knew she was not the only one whose eyes grew wet. It took you to a different world, left you there floating in emotion, tugged at your heartstrings until all you wanted was to hear more.

This was not the first time she’d heard Dorothea sing, but it _felt_ like the first time. Back at Garreg Mach, in the choir or at occasional musical performances that the students organized, Dorothea had sung - but though that had been beautiful, it wasn’t like this. Ingrid didn’t know if it was the setting - the costumes, the acting, the building itself - or the fact that Dorothea had all the time she needed to practice, to hone her craft.

Or maybe it was because Ingrid had not heard her beautiful voice in so long. Maybe she’d forgotten, somehow, the clarity and emotion of it.

Maybe it was simply that she had not properly appreciated it before.

For most of the years they’d known each other, Ingrid had been mildly confused by Dorothea’s friendship. She had never understood why Dorothea would be interested in her when they were so different, when their lives walked such different paths. When Dorothea had joined the Blue Lions, they’d been around each other so often, and Ingrid began looking forward to seeing her smiles, her teasing words. She’d known, of course, that Dorothea had not joined them for _her_ , but she’d been pleased nonetheless.

Then, through the long years of the war, Ingrid thought about her. She had joined the forces in Faerghus who pushed back against the Empire’s occupation, fighting alongside Gautier and Fraldarius forces, but of course Dorothea had not joined them. Ingrid learned later that she had traveled, helping where she could until they all came together again, but in those days they had no way to communicate. Even if Ingrid had wished to, she would have been unable to contact Dorothea.

And so sometimes she found her thoughts going to Dorothea. Wondering where she was, if she was all right. Hoping for her safety - praying for it sometimes, earnest pleas to the Goddess.

The relief Ingrid had felt when they’d met again had been immeasurable. She’d done her best to hide it, but that had not changed how she’d felt. They’d fallen back into that friendship with an ease that surprised Ingrid. She was used to Felix’s difficult nature, Sylvain’s deflections. Dorothea indulged in none of that, at least not with her - she just hugged Ingrid, said she was delighted that Ingrid was alive, and they fell back into old rhythms. 

They ate together, Dorothea talked about handsome men and beautiful women, Ingrid talked about the war. Dorothea teased her, Ingrid tried not to blush too hard and sometimes made a valiant effort to tease in return. They’d both been marked by the war, changed by it, hurt by it, but somehow when Dorothea was with her that pain was eased, that burden was lifted. She thought it might be the same for Dorothea, too.

And it was then that she began to realize that her feelings for Dorothea might not be simple friendship.

When they had been at school together, it had been easy to avoid Dorothea’s casual flirting - indeed, it had taken some time for Ingrid to realize that’s what it was at all. But she’d seen Dorothea with boys, and her easy charm there had been similar, and Ingrid _knew_ Dorothea wasn’t actually that fond of them. For her, they were a ladder, a path to security. With Ingrid - well, once she’d realized that Dorothea flirted with her, too, she assumed it was just because it came naturally to her. After so long searching for security with smiles and clever words, it had become second nature. It didn’t _mean_ anything.

So Ingrid had dismissed it, even if sometimes it made her blush, even if some part of her liked the attention. She was pretty sure that Dorothea _actually_ liked her, unlike the noble boys she dated, and that was nice. That was really all that mattered.

But then things had become different. They were at war, and though Dorothea occasionally said things that made it clear that her future was no less important to her, most of her thoughts were on other things. It had still been second nature for her to smile at noblemen, respond to their interest, but she never let it go very far anymore. There was no time for that kind of thing, no reason to waste her energy on it.

But she still spent time on Ingrid. Still wasted energy on her. And Ingrid noticed it, and appreciated it, and some part of her began to wonder if that meant something.

And of course, once she’d had that thought, she could not ignore it so easily. It was less about what Dorothea might feel for her - because in truth Ingrid did not know, and feared asking - and more about what _she_ might feel for Dorothea.

She had loved Glenn, she thought, but as she grew older she realized how very young she had been. She’d admired him greatly, she’d dreamed of marrying him. She _had_ loved him, certainly, but she could see now how much that love had been shaded with admiration. He had been what she wanted to be, after all, a strong and honorable knight. Brave and skilled, and with his future ahead of him, until it wasn’t.

It was impossible to say now if, once that puppy crush had faded, her admiration would have turned into something closer to what she felt for Felix, for Sylvain and Dimitri: a familial, friendly sort of love. She would die for any of them, but the thought of _kissing_ any one of them was repugnant.

It might have been different with Glenn. But then again, it might not have been - and now she would never know.

What she did know was that, as an adult, she had never been in love.

There hadn’t been time to think much about that during the war, of course. Ingrid would never have abandoned more pressing issues in order to contemplate her love life or lack thereof. But even so, on some level she began to realize that her thoughts about Dorothea, her emotions, were not those of simple friendship.

She’d pushed it aside out of fear and duty. She’d focused on the war, and allowed herself to enjoy Dorothea’s company and friendship without thinking about _more_ , without thinking about the possibility that Dorothea’s playful flirting might mean that she too felt more than simple friendship.

It was only after the war that Ingrid truly began to realize what she’d been denying herself. It was after they had already parted, Dorothea staying in Enbarr to help with the rebuilding and Ingrid returning to Fhirdiad to serve Dimitri, her king and dear friend. It was only once they were apart, and Ingrid realized how dearly she missed the small things: taking tea with Dorothea, her musical laugh, her smile that could light up a room. It was only then that she began to really accept what she felt - what she had felt for some time.

Every time a letter arrived from Dorothea, her heart surged. She would read them again and again, and do her level best to respond promptly and properly. She found herself wondering if Dorothea greeted her letters in the same way, if she ever thought of Ingrid, if there was a part of her heart that held on to Ingrid the same way Ingrid’s held on to Dorothea.

But she couldn’t ask. Not in a letter, not when she didn’t even know how to begin. 

Time passed, Fódlan healed, and Ingrid’s feelings for Dorothea did not change. She’d thought they might. She’d thought it might be a - a crush, a temporary interest. She’d thought that she might meet someone else, might stop dreaming of Dorothea, but when a young noble from the former Alliance territories attempted to court her, she found herself utterly uninterested. She’d put him off as kindly as she could, and had been trying to decide what to do about her feelings for Dorothea when Dimitri announced that he would be journeying to Enbarr.

In truth, throughout the journey Ingrid still had not decided. Dorothea’s feelings were a mystery to her, and she herself had so little experience with romance that she was sure it would be a disaster to try. But even so, her heart did not seem to wish to be swayed.

Ingrid couldn’t say when she had decided. Maybe it had been the moment she’d seen Dorothea again, at the door of her room in the former Imperial Palace. Maybe it had been outside the opera, when she saw the flowers and wished only to press them into Dorothea’s hands, see her smile.

Maybe it was right in that moment, as Dorothea filled the opera house with song, transporting everyone who listened.

Whenever it had happened, Ingrid realized then that she knew what she was going to do.

***

The show was incredible. Despite Ingrid’s nerves, she was enthralled, and for the length of the show her heart felt easy. She forgot her nervousness, her uncertainty, her fear about the actions that might result from her decision. She forgot everything except the beauty of the music, the emotional performances, the epic story.

And then it was over, and the theater rose in applause. Ingrid rose with them, clapping even harder when Dorothea came out to take her bow. She could swear that Dorothea looked up at her, that she smiled - but that might just have been a trick of the light. It was clear to see how popular and beloved she was. After her bows, the stage was littered with flowers, most of them in shades of red to match the dress her character had worn through much of the opera.

People began to file out, the chatter of conversation rising as they discussed what they had seen, exclaimed over the most affecting parts, shared their favorite moments. Ingrid took a breath and steeled herself. Ridiculously, she felt more nervous than she ever had before a battle. She lifted the bouquet she’d bought into her arms, and then she stepped out of the box.

Unpracticed in these sorts of things, she did not until that moment realize that it was entirely possible she wouldn’t be allowed to see Dorothea at all. The diva of the Mittelfrank Opera Company surely had hundreds, _thousands_ of admirers, and no doubt plenty of them tried to sweet-talk their way backstage to meet her. There was no reason to think that Ingrid would be different - except, of course, that Dorothea had invited her personally.

And indeed, when Ingrid stepped out of the private box, there was a man waiting for her. He was attired in the uniform of the opera house, and he bowed to her politely.

“My lady,” he said, “I would be pleased if you would accompany me backstage.”

Ingrid’s shoulders relaxed. Somewhere in the most nervous part of her mind, she’d wondered if Dorothea had simply intended for her to return to the palace after this. She’d wondered if the only place she would see Dorothea anymore was onstage, so far away that it was impossible for Ingrid to even dream of touching her.

But no. Of course not. Dorothea wasn’t like that - Dorothea had always been a true friend to her, had always gone out of her way to spend time with Ingrid and help her in difficult moments. Ingrid had tried to do the same whenever possible, but she knew she wasn’t as good at it as Dorothea was.

Her hands tightened on the colorful blossoms in her hands. She would do her best this time, and see what came of it.

She followed the man through the halls of the opera house, now teeming with people. The hubbub of conversation and press of bodies made it impossible to speak to him, and Ingrid wouldn’t have known what to say anyway. So she stayed silent, and tried to calm her beating heart, and followed.

He led her to a small, tucked-away door that opened into the backstage area of the opera house - another world entirely. The hallways were cramped and lined with costumes and props, and now and then someone would brush past them. Ingrid recognized the man who had played Dorothea’s character’s father, and a few people from the chorus, all smiling and seemingly pleased with themselves but still in a hurry. They glanced at Ingrid with some curiosity, but did not stop to ask who she was. She supposed her escort meant that she was welcome.

They stopped before one of the doors set into the wall and he knocked, a quick and perfunctory sound. Then they both waited, Ingrid growing more nervous by the second. She was still emotional from the opera, shaky from the decisions she’d made, and now uncertain what to expect.

But then Dorothea opened the door and smiled at her, and everything made sense again.

“There’s my Ingrid,” she said, nothing but pleasure in her smile. “Thank you, Elliot, and I’m sorry again for taking you away from your work.”

“Think nothing of it,” the man - Elliot? - said, sketching a quick bow. “Anything for our rose.” He winked at Ingrid as he turned to walk off, wasting no time, and then they were alone.

Well. Alone as they could be with Ingrid still standing in the hallway.

“Oh,” she remembered with a blush, “these are for you.” She held out the flowers and was deeply gratified to see Dorothea’s eyes widen, her beautiful lips curve into another stunning smile.

“For me? They’re gorgeous, you really didn’t need to.” But Dorothea gladly took them, and then she was ushering Ingrid into her dressing room and closing the door, and then they really _were_ alone.

The room was small, but it was clear that it was for Dorothea’s private use - of course. If anyone deserved their own dressing room, it was the star. The costumes she’d worn in the opera that night littered the space, draped over a low couch and crumpled next to her dressing table. There was a small rack that held more costumes, as well as what might have been normal clothing - except of course that this was Dorothea, so it was awfully hard to tell what was a costume and what was simply her glamorous sense of style.

Her dressing table was equally covered with powders and bottles, brushes and other implements that Ingrid, with her limited experience with cosmetics, could not identify. Dorothea pushed some to one side, miraculously managing to avoid sending anything off the table, and retrieved a vase from beneath it. Setting the flowers inside, she arranged them prettily with only a few deft movements. Ingrid could only watch, charmed.

“They really are beautiful,” Dorothea said, turning to her with a smile. “You must have chosen the nicest ones.”

“I tried to,” Ingrid said, unable to keep herself from smiling in return. “But I’m sure they’re nothing. You must get a lot of flowers.”

Dorothea didn’t disagree, but she shrugged. “I usually send them to orphanages - they deserve beauty more than anyone. I only keep the ones that are from people I care about.” She reached out, fingers brushing along the delicate petal of a rose. “And these are from you, Ingrid. Of course they’d be special to me.”

When she said things like that, it was impossible for Ingrid to stop herself from hoping. She tried to be practical, tried to calm her heart and remind herself that Dorothea simply spoke that way, that it didn’t mean anything - but she couldn’t quite make herself believe it. She _wanted_ it to mean more, wanted it very much.

While Ingrid struggled with her emotions, Dorothea continued blithely on. 

“Well? What did you think of the show?” She smiled at Ingrid still, practically sparkling. Her cheeks were flushed with the satisfaction of her performance, the rush of work well done. It was a fetching look on her, and moreso because Ingrid knew the feeling well. They did entirely different things, exercised their skills in completely different ways, but the unmitigated satisfaction of completing something and knowing you’d done it well was so very familiar. 

Ingrid smiled. She couldn’t help it. “It was wonderful.” She groped for a better description, groped for the kind of eloquence that the opera deserved. “I really felt like I was in the story, like you actors were all the lords and ladies. It was so emotional - oh, and the singing, Dorothea, you were incredible. I could have listened to you all night.”

“Oh Ingrid,” Dorothea said, her hand over her heart now, her cheeks well and truly flushed, “I would be honored to sing for you all night - except of course my voice would likely give out.” She laughed, a beautiful thing, and moved to the low sofa. With a few quick movements, she’d cleared a bit of space and taken a seat, patting the sofa next to her.

Ingrid settled next to her. Thanks to the remaining costumes and piece of clothing scattered across the couch, there was only a small area for them both - which meant that she was sitting awfully close to Dorothea, their legs pressed together. Ingrid tried not to think about it, but of course she couldn’t help herself, and so she resolved instead to try not to think about it _too much._

“Do you like the dress?” Dorothea’s eyes roved over her, and Ingrid could not help feeling exposed. Normally she would have hated that, but now - here, with Dorothea - it felt strange and exciting instead. “I know it’s not your normal sort of thing, but it really does suit you.”

“It took me a little while to get used to it,” Ingrid admitted. “It’s been a long time since I’ve worn a dress. But - well, it _is_ nice. And it’s not so bad to get dressed up from time to time.”

“You look absolutely beautiful,” Dorothea said, and her slim fingers settled on Ingrid’s bare arm. The point of contact sent a sharp awareness through Ingrid, until it felt like all her senses were focused on that one small spot. “But then, you really always look gorgeous.”

Ingrid felt herself blush, and it was as if everything left her mind except the way Dorothea was looking at her. She’d made her decision and now - now all that remained was to take action.

She wanted to kiss Dorothea. She wanted to lean in and press her lips to Dorothea’s, put a hand on her waist and pull her closer and see where that took them. But it was too much, too soon, and Ingrid would not force an unwanted kiss on Dorothea - would not force anything unwanted on her.

She rested her hand on Dorothea’s instead, covered Dorothea’s with her own. Their hands were nearly the same size, but Dorothea’s were soft, manicured and well cared for. Ingrid’s were calloused from wielding her lance, nails short and clean but undecorated. Dorothea did not seem to mind - she didn’t move her hand, simply raising her eyes to Ingrid’s instead, a smile hovering on her perfect lips.

“Really, I’m nothing compared to you,” Ingrid said, and then she wanted to wince. It sounded so trite, so empty, even though it was true. Dorothea was the most beautiful thing in any room, the one Ingrid’s eyes always went to. “I’m - really happy to see you again.”

“It’s been too long,” Dorothea said in quiet agreement. “I thought of you often, all the way up north in Fhirdiad. I thought maybe you’d get cold - or bored.” She grinned.

“I love my work,” Ingrid said, and she found herself leaning closer, drawn in by Dorothea’s nearness. “But… it was a little bit boring without you there.”

“You should’ve come to visit sooner.” Dorothea’s hand beneath hers turned, and then they were holding hands, Dorothea’s thumb brushing gently across Ingrid’s fingers. It shouldn’t have been as intense, as sensual as it was, but Ingrid could barely think straight.

“I should have,” she said, heart thumping in her chest, and she let herself hold Dorothea’s hand just a little more tightly. “I missed you. I - I’ve been thinking of you.”

Dorothea leaned in. “Hmm. What have you been thinking?”

Ingrid took a breath and steeled herself. It was now or never. This was a thousand times more frightening than a battle, a hundred times scarier than facing down a demonic beast. “I’ve been thinking of how much I miss spending time with you. How much I… care for you. It’s taken me far too long to do this, but - Dorothea, you don’t have to say yes. You can pretend this never happened if you wish, I don’t want to lose your friendship. But I - want to kiss you. Very badly.”

Ingrid had meant for her words to be careful, deliberate. But instead they stumbled over each other, one coming after the next a little too fast, her nerves showing themselves. She wouldn’t allow it to fluster her anymore than it already had, though. She steadied herself, met Dorothea’s eyes, and then - 

Dorothea laughed.

Ingrid didn’t know what to make of that. A bubble of panic began to grow in her chest.

“Oh, I see. The flowers, the sweet words… Ingrid, are you trying to seduce me?” Dorothea smiled at her. It was more playful than cruel, and Ingrid took some hope from that. Hope that even if Dorothea refused her, their friendship would not be broken beyond repair.

“I was intending something more like _courtship_ than seduction - “

“Of course,” Dorothea said, a smile still playing about her lips. “Silly of me. Seduction isn’t your sort of thing. But, Ingrid, it’s certainly _my_ sort of thing.”

Ingrid blinked at her. “What?”

“Hmm… well. I brought you an invitation to my private box, and I sent you a dress to wear with it. I provided food you’d like, and invited you back to my dressing room. And maybe you didn’t notice, but when I sang that romance aria - I was looking at you.”

Ingrid had not noticed - or rather, she’d thought it was possible, but had assumed it was simply part of being a diva. Dorothea surely had the power to make everyone in the audience think she was singing only to them - there was no way that had _actually_ been the case.

Except apparently it had.

“Ingrid,” Dorothea said, and laughter was laced through her words. “ _I_ was trying to seduce _you_.”

Oh.

_Oh._

Now Ingrid felt impossibly foolish. How had she not seen it? How had she simply taken it as Dorothea’s usual friendly interest, how had she not connected the dots? Had she really been so caught up in her own nerves and preoccupations?

Apparently she had.

“You’re much better at it than I am,” she said, starting to smile now too. The foolishness was fading away, turning into sweet amusement - sweet _amazement_ , the knowledge that her feelings were returned, that she had been frightened over nothing.

That Dorothea wanted her.

“I wouldn’t say that,” Dorothea said, and her smile was softer now, sweeter. “You were doing an excellent job. I was practically swooning.”

“Don’t tease me,” Ingrid said, really smiling now. “You had me wrapped around your finger.”

“I’d certainly like you to be.” Her voice was lower, more intimate, and then Dorothea tugged Ingrid’s hand up, pressing her lips to the back of it. A faint imprint of her lipstick remained when she pulled back, still leaning over a bit, looking up at Ingrid under her lashes. “I’ve been thinking of you, too. And I’ve missed you terribly.”

Ingrid’s heart trembled, and she could not hold back any longer. She tugged Dorothea toward her, leaned in, and then they were kissing.

Their first kiss was gentle, careful. Ingrid had never kissed a woman before - had kissed very few people at all - and so she was cautious, worried about doing it wrong. Dorothea, who was certainly more experienced, didn’t press her. She let Ingrid set the pace, let her take it slow, and somehow it was perfect.

Dorothea’s lips were soft and sweet, and she didn’t pull her hand from Ingrid’s. They kissed again, and again, and Ingrid’s nerves fell away, replaced with desire and sensation and the pure pleasure of knowing that her feelings were returned. She lost track of time, forgot everything except Dorothea, and when Dorothea finally pulled away - because they both did have to breathe - it was a loss.

“You don’t know how long I’ve wanted to do that,” Dorothea said. Her cheeks were flushed, her lipstick a mess, her eyes glowing.

“Don’t tell me,” Ingrid said, unable to stop herself from smiling. “I’ll feel like a complete fool if I know we could have been doing this long ago, but I was too blind to realize it.”

Dorothea laughed. “Then it’ll stay a secret.” She paused, her eyes on Ingrid, lashes lowered in an impossibly seductive way. “Now, there are two things we can do. I can take you to dinner - there’s a lovely restaurant not far from here that does wonderful things with spices. _Or_ -” and here she paused, almost as if she was nervous, but surely that couldn’t be right, “ - I can take you back to my home. There’s food there, or we could get something on the way.”

Ingrid was not so much a fool that she did not see the invitation for what it was. A moment ago they’d been in each other’s arms, Dorothea’s lips had been on hers. She’d felt alive in a way she never had before, a way she’d never truly believed in feeling. And now Dorothea was inviting her somewhere private, somewhere safe, somewhere that they would not be interrupted.

Was she ready for that?

“Of course,” Dorothea continued, and she bit her lower lip for just a moment - and goddess, she _was_ nervous, how was that possible? “We don’t have to do either. I can call a coach to take you back to the palace if you’re tired.”

She would never force anything on Ingrid. She might tease and cajole and flirt, but Ingrid knew her. She _knew_ Dorothea, she realized, in a way that felt almost like a part of herself. Whatever she chose, Dorothea would honor it. If she needed more time, Dorothea would honor that, as well.

And that decided her. 

“I’d like to see your home,” Ingrid said, heart pounding in her chest, and Dorothea smiled.

***

Ingrid waited while Dorothea changed into street clothes, washed her face, reapplied her makeup. She waited while Dorothea spoke to some of the other members of the opera company about the performance the following night, about a few minor details. She waited while Dorothea said good night, and it all felt like it flew by. Like she would happily wait forever if it was Dorothea that she was waiting for.

But of course, she didn’t have to wait forever. Before long Dorothea was at her side again and they headed out onto the streets of Enbarr. As it turned out, Dorothea lived within walking distance of the opera house - a sensible choice, since she spent most of her waking hours there. She led Ingrid through the wide paved streets of the former Imperial capital, and on the way they purchased meat pies and twists of candied nuts from a vendor. It felt like a holiday, like something special and sweet, and Ingrid followed Dorothea off the main streets and into the smaller, twisting back streets with joy and excitement in her heart.

Dorothea was smiling, beautiful, unafraid. She tugged Ingrid into a darkened doorway and kissed her, the sweetness from the nuts still on her lips. She held Ingrid’s hand as they walked, uncaring of any curious eyes. She pointed out her favorite shops, a cafe that she loved, and Ingrid felt as if she could see the city through Dorothea’s eyes, see all the best parts of it.

The night was warm and clear, but they didn’t linger outdoors overlong. Dorothea led Ingrid up a winding staircase to her rooms, a small but lush apartment that was - as with all things that Dorothea touched - beautiful. In truth, though, Ingrid didn’t notice much about it that night. By the time they made it up the stairs, they’d traded a hundred kisses, and Dorothea’s hands had wandered enough to turn Ingrid perfectly red.

There, in that beautifully decorated apartment that was imbued with Dorothea in every tiny touch, they fell into each other.

Like their first kiss, Ingrid was nervous at first. Uncertain. But since it was Dorothea that she was with, none of that uncertainty lasted - they wanted each other too much. Their kisses turned hungry, Dorothea’s lips tracing their way down Ingrid’s neck, and Ingrid found that she wanted nothing more than to touch Dorothea, explore her, find out what made her cry out.

Dorothea slid Ingrid’s dress off her shoulders, murmuring in delight at the exposed skin, at Ingrid’s blush. Ingrid dared to return the gesture, stripping Dorothea out of her clothing, Dorothea’s pleased laughter urging her on. And then they were bare together, and Dorothea’s lips were on her skin again, Dorothea’s slender fingers sliding between her legs.

Beneath Dorothea’s hand, her mouth, her beautiful gaze, Ingrid found release. Afterwards, gasping, she asked Dorothea to show her how she liked to be touched - and Dorothea did, and Ingrid was able to bring her to the brink and push her over, shuddering and gasping. She heard Dorothea cry out her name, kissed it off her lips, and then -

Then they began again. They had both wanted this for so long that once wasn’t enough, they needed to have as much of each other as they could. They needed to learn each other, to discover how they fit together, to finally indulge in that long-hidden pleasure.

Afterward, spent and sated, they curled together on Dorothea’s bed. Ingrid ran her fingers through Dorothea’s hair, untangling it gently, and they talked. They talked about small things - how they spent their days, what they wanted to share with each other, what they liked and didn’t. They talked about large things too - the past, the future, the secrets of their hearts. It was everything Ingrid had been unsure how to put in her letters, everything she’d wanted to share with Dorothea for so long.

And then they slept, pressed together and warm, if a bit sticky. In the morning Dorothea woke her with a kiss, and Ingrid daringly slid a hand between her legs, and everything was perfect.

It had to end. Ingrid had to wash and dress and return to the palace, return to her position at their king’s side. Dorothea had to return to the opera house, prepare for her evening performance. They both had to go back to their lives, end that perfect spell of desire and affection.

But Ingrid’s happiness didn’t fade. It couldn’t, especially not after Dorothea made her promise that they would meet for dinner the next evening - and they did, visiting the restaurant Dorothea had told her about, returning to Dorothea’s room afterward, falling into one another again.

All it took was that second night, and Ingrid knew. She knew that she would not be able to say goodbye to Dorothea so easily, knew that she could not simply return to Fhirdiad and forget her. That was impossible, a heartbreaking thought, and so Ingrid came to a decision.

“How would you feel,” she asked Dorothea nervously, “if I stayed?”

Dorothea’s smile was all the answer Ingrid needed. The very next day, she asked Dimitri to consider whether her battalion might be posted in Enbarr for a time, even after he left. She had her reasons all ready: it would allow her newly-promoted pegasus knights ample time to find nobles to serve, it would give them all experience with Adrestia, and their presence here would be a reminder of their new king for both supporters and rebels. But she didn’t have to say any of that, because the moment she suggested it, Dimitri lit up.

“Of course you can stay,” he said, and smiled. “I’d been hoping you would consider something of the sort. You have been so dedicated - you deserve to choose something for yourself, after all you’ve done for me. For Fódlan.”

Ingrid frowned at him, just a little. He was her liege lord and king, but he was also her childhood friend, and sometimes it was difficult to ignore that. “What do you mean, choose something for myself?”

Dimitri flushed. “I just meant - your regard for Dorothea, and hers for you. Is that not why you wish to stay?”

It _was_ , but how Dimitri knew that when Ingrid had only recently admitted it to herself… well, she felt a bit embarrassed now. Had she been that obvious? Had they both been that obvious?

But her embarrassment faded quickly. It was true, after all. And if one of her oldest friends could see it, could agree with it, could wish the best for them both - well, Ingrid could be nothing but pleased by that.

“It is,” she said finally, feeling her own cheeks flush. “Not forever, of course. I intend to return to Fhirdiad eventually, but - but for now, I’d like to stay.”

“Of course you may,” Dimitri said, straightening, a more regal expression settling on his features. “And if you decide that Enbarr suits your taste in a more permanent fashion, I have no doubt we can work something out.”

 _A more permanent fashion._ They hadn’t talked about that yet, she and Dorothea - it was too soon, too new. Ingrid wanted to discover how they fit together first, she wanted to go into this with caution and care. Dorothea’s heart was nothing to play with, and neither was her own.

But - but even so, there was a part of her that rejoiced at the idea of that. The dream, the chance of a future.

“Thank you, my king,” she said, and bowed formally. When she straightened, they were both smiling, unable to do anything else. And later, when Ingrid told Dorothea she was saying and received a delighted kiss in return, she again could not stop smiling, could do nothing but thank the Goddess for her good fortune.

Her heart felt light. The future stretched before her, full of possibility. Full of Dorothea.


End file.
